Asylum
by Apocalyptic-Mess
Summary: "This job . . . hunting . . . it makes you go crazy, man. Sooner or later, we'll all go insane." The truth of Sam's words was too much for Dean. As Dean turned away from Sam, he heard his brother mutter, "You'll have to kill me, Dean."


**A/N: **_**Hello people! This was just an idea that I got for a random short story/fan fiction thing, and although it's AU and it's only a one-shot, I don't know if I should make it into a series. Please read it and tell me what you think! ^-^**_

**Asylum**

It was wrong. Wrong of me to think that I could do it; that I could finish the suffering, end the pain. Wrong to think that my life would be better after I died . . . if there _was_ any type of life after death. But most of all, it was stupid.

_I _was stupid. And now, I was reaping the rewards of a white padded cell and cheap, cardboard tasting mush.

"You'll be alright here, Charlie, won't you?" Lizzie asked me distantly and I wasn't sure if her words were more than that. More than _just words _that didn't contain a sliver of concern or worry.

I just shrugged, nodded my head and gave her my most charming smile. She saw right through it. Maybe if I behaved like the good little soldier, they would let me out sooner. Instead of keeping me locked in here like some kind of animal. At least the lions in the zoo don't try to hang themselves with their collars.

I couldn't even get through a simple lunch hour without the nurses hovering over my shoulder, afraid that I'd somehow concocted a way to use my plastic spork to kill myself.

Silently grumbling at the unfairness of it all, I sat there in a cracked plastic seat, staring at the brown mush potatoes and stringy beans—that's when I noticed the guy in the corner. I shouldn't have noticed him; I definitely shouldn't have cared as he sat there, humming quietly to himself and rocking back and forth as he stared down at his hands. He was just another guy in the mental ward, probably in here for attempting suicide, homicide, or . . . something.

"Shit." I knew I shouldn't have cared about the possible murderer rocking in the corner, because he'd abruptly looked up. Straight at _me_. Suddenly he was getting up and walking over to me, and I was panicking in my cracked, plastic chair, wondering if maybe this guy really _did_ kill somebody—and maybe I was next.

"So, whatdya got?" His voice was gruff and hoarse as he sat down across from me, and I could see that his eyes were a weary, suspicious green. Something about the way he hunched his back and leaned expectantly over the table made me think he was waiting for something from me—I just didn't know _what_.

"Uh," thinking that he meant something about my food, I pushed my tray to the middle of the table. "Just some beans and potatoes, man. The usual crap."

The guy actually cracked a smile at that, and I figured, okay, since he hadn't killed me yet, maybe he wasn't actually half bad.

"Nah, I meant about the case." He was suddenly serious again and it made my spine tingle as I felt a bead of sweat start to form on my brow.

"Um . . . excuse me? I don't think I know what you're talking about." I said slowly, hoping they guy might get the point and leave. Maybe he wasn't a murderer—maybe he just hallucinated things or something.

The guy snorted and leaned back in the chair. "Very funny, Sam."

Sam? Who the hell was Sam? _Yep_, I thought sadly,_ definitely a hallucinator._ Which was really quite sad, seeing as this guy was still pretty much lucid and coherent. "My name's Charlie . . . who's Sam?"

He didn't appear to hear me as when I finished talking, he'd leaned forward again and was talking about something else.

"I did some research earlier—dude, I know, libraries _suck_—and I found out that the hotel has a string of violent deaths. Suicides, murders, freak accidents . . . sounds like our kind of thing, doesn't it?" He looked pleased with himself, but seriously, the guy was starting to freak me out. Murders? _Suicides?_ How the hell can those be a 'thing'?

Because I was starting to get uncomfortable, I held up my hands and started saying, "Uh, look dude, I don't know who you are . . ." but was abruptly cut off when the guy abruptly threw something in my direction.

I looked down at the folded piece of paper and opened it up, almost cringing back in disgust at the horrid, disfigured creature the hand drawn picture portrayed. "Send that to Bobby, will you? Maybe he'll know something we don't."

I tried to say 'Who's Bobby?' but I was cut off again when the guy got up and started talking. "Anyway, to cut the therapy session short, I'm gonna go back to the hotel, maybe ask around, meet up with that nice greeter. What was her name again—Lisa? Jade?" He trailed off with a suggestive look and cheeky smirk and I chuckled in disbelief. He patted me on the shoulder and turned around then, calling over his shoulder as he walked away, "Don't worry, Sammy—you're just jealous."

My only response was to call back to him, "My name's not Sam." As I watched the strange hallucinator guy walk back to his corner and grab a sketch book, probably to draw more freaky ass pictures of demon children and devil spawns. I glanced at the picture in my hands one more time before crumpling it up and standing, walking over to the trash. The janitor was emptying the trash cans as I walked by and, still kind of freaked out by my encounter with demon guy, I decided to say something.

"Hey, who's the crazy guy in the corner?" I asked the scruffy old janitor in hushed whispers, afraid that demon guy had super hearing as a side effect from whatever anti-hallucinatory drug he was on.

Scruffy-old-janitor-guy whose name tag referred to him as Bob chuckled heartily and said, "Buddy, in here, they're all crazy guys rockin' in their corners."

"Yeah, but . . . that guy." I pointed him out. "The one with the short-ish scruffy brown hair."

"Again, buddy. There's more o' those types o' people than I can count on both my hands. It's like a clonin' factory or summin'." After he'd given another healthy chuckle, he'd sobered up enough to seriously look to where I'd pointed out, and eyes widened in understanding. "But that guy? The one drawing over there? That the one you mean?" Bob asked just to confirm that, yes, that _was_ in fact the crazy guy I was asking about. "What dya want with him?"

"Just wanna know who he is. He came over here and just stared at me for a sec, said something. Gave me _this, _then walked away." I handed over the crumpled paper and watched as Bob uncrumpled it, nodding his head in understanding.

Quickly folded the paper up again and handed it back to me. "Ay."

"So . . ." I drawled when Bob didn't seem inclined to answer me. "Who is he?"

The pause was a long one and I squirmed uncomfortably under the intense gaze of the fish-eyed janitor. "You're talking about Winchester."

I paused. "Winchester?" That seriously wasn't his name, was it?

Bob nodded his head and rubbed his chin contemplatively, but the tone of his voice held a hidden warning. "Ay . . . Dean; but he's caused a lot of trouble that boy has." He said slowly. "Best just stay out of his way."

The words caused a spark of curiosity to ignite. "Why?" I asked hurriedly. If he'd done something really wrong, wouldn't he be in jail already? Or locked in solitary at least. Why was he even here in the first place? "What happened to him to get him stuck in this shit hole?"

This time, Bob took a long time before answering. His eyes said he was sizing me up, making sure I was ready to here the information, while a part of his expression revealed his hidden enthusiasm with exposing this tidbit of gossip. "Well, 'lot a stories go 'round this place." Bob the janitor lowered his voice suddenly, and I had to lean in to hear him. "I dunno if any are true, course. I keep my nose clean, stay outta everyone's business." I choked back a snort at this bit of information—to me it seemed like this janitor was the kind of guy to know everything about everyone. "But… that Winchester." Suddenly his face turned sad and resigned. "They say he killed his brother, shot him right between the eyes. Killed him in cold blood, I reckon. That just me, course." Bob hurriedly announced and then, when he got a warning glance from one of the doctors, busied himself with changing the trash. I was glad—this gave me time to think before Bob turned back to me.

The words were thick in my throat and I had trouble getting them out. I cleared my throat before saying anything, but it didn't make a difference with the sudden adrenaline running through my veins. "So, murder." _He actually killed someone, his _brother_, and he's _here_?_ "Why isn't he in jail?" I'd sat with the guy, had a conversation with him. I'd told him my _name_. He'd seemed so normal.

And he'd killed his _brother_.

Bob turned around to do the other trash but he spoke over his shoulder. "He says the devil was in his brother. He said he had to kill him; apparently it was the only way to save him."

The incredulous expression on my face as I stared at the man in the corner must have been hysterical. The short haired man just sat there, still drawing. "And…? There are hundreds of people who say they kill because the person was possessed by the devil." In fact, I'd known someone who'd tried to kill a girl because he said that an angel had told him too. "What makes this kid any different?"

I never did see the expression on the janitors face, or what he held in his hands. The last thing I remember seeing was the flash of his eyes from blue to black and his malevolent smile as he softly whispered four simple words.

"Because he was right."

**A/N: **_**So what do you think? Should I turn it into a novel? Should I write more about what happened to Sam and Dean? Any feedback is greatly appreciated! ^-^**_

_****_*~*Courtney*~*


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